Inspired Exercises  A Oneshot Experience
by i'mnotcrazy82
Summary: A long series of completely unrelated one-shots about the characters of House. All characters will probably be represented in one form or another. Some are AU, some are drabbles, some are post-episode ficlets. None should exceed the T rating.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N - At the start of this year, I decided to challenge myself. There's a 160 theme challenge that circulated the fox site, and I had started it a few times, only to let it fizzle out after one or two one-shots. This year, One of my New Years Resolutions was to complete a one-shot a week, until I finished these (and if you do the math, kiddies, I do realize that it will take me over three years to do this, but I'm not going to let that discourage me.). I've complete eight so far, not bad. They're all posted on a different site, but I decided to share them here, too.**_

**_While I'm a Huddy, and there are certainly going to be Huddy ficlets represented here, these aren't all going to be Huddy. Many of them are going to about different characters, and possibly different ships. It's just me trying to branch out and do something different. Most of these are going to be very quick. The theme will be the title of the one-shot. I hope you all enjoy them._**

**_Now, on to the first one, written back on new year's day. I hope you enjoy it!  
_**

**Never Again**

_Never again_, Robert Chase thought as he roused himself from the stupor he had drank himself into the previous night. His limbs felt heavy, and his tongue felt fuzzy and heavy. His eyelids felt like someone had glued them together. "Never again,"he groaned aloud, forcing his thick tongue to move, to make sure it could. He forced open his eyes, immediately shutting them at the bright light that suddenly came bursting through the formerly drawn curtains. He heard someone whistle as they moved around his condo, and he suddenly sat up, all the blood rushing to his head, and a wave of thick nausea washing through him.

"Good morning, sunshine," came a voice from the living room. A familiar, mocking voice. Chase started to get up, only to realize he was naked, so he wrapped the sheet around his waist, and he stumbled out of bed. Not his bed, he realized, belatedly. He staggered to a halt, looking around the unfamiliar room, with its heavy, dark furniture and clothes haphazardly thrown here and there. There were no picture on the walls, just heavy book shelves lined with textbooks. One hand still clenched the sheet tightly, while the other hand ran through his disheveled hair. He blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings, and wondering just what the hell happened the previous night.

He hadn't realized he had spoken out loud when a head poked through the door to the bedroom.

"Good, you're up." His boss, Greg House greeted him with a mocking cheerfulness. Then, the face disappeared, leaving the door somewhat open.

"Up, is a relative term," he mumbled, scratching at the stubble on his cheeks. "How the hell did I wind up here?" he asked still in shock, and wondering if this was a dream. Or, rather, a nightmare.

"I thought myself and Thirteen had the trademark on downward spirals, but I think you're gonna beat us both, now." House informed him, still unbearably cheerful, just to mock him that much more. "As far as being naked," he informed Chase, "we found your clothes in the dumpster in the back of the bar about a block away where we found you, face down in the snow." House's tone became much more sober.

"_We_?" Chase asked, focusing on the least important aspect of the information he had been given.

"Cuddy 'n' me," House informed him. "We were coming home from New Year's, and she spotted your car, but not you." He came back into the bedroom where Chase stood, and handed him his clothes, now freshly laundered. "I tried to call you, and when you didn't answer, Cuddy got worried, so thank her, for saving your sorry ass." He left the room, letting Chase dress while pondering his words.

"Saving me?" Had he had that much to drink? He frowned, trying to remember what he had done the previous night, New Year's Eve. He was supposed to meet a particularly buxom blond he had met at a restaurant a few days before, determined to spend the night with someone, not wanting to be alone. The woman...he couldn't remember her name, had the same eye-color as Allison... His stomach revolted, and he rushed to the bathroom, retching into the toilet, emptying the meager contents of his stomach.

Once he was done, and he had rinsed the foul contents of his mouth away in the sink, he pulled on his jeans, and staggered out to the living room, where his boss' girlfriend, and the Chief Adminstrator of the hospital was perched on the couch, her dark smudged eyes were watching him carefully. "Good morning, Chase," she greeted him. She looked like she hadn't gotten any sleep the night before. "How are you feeling."

"Like Jose and Jack had a brawl in his stomach, I bet," House chortled from the kitchen. "And, from the looks of it, Chase lost." He came out in an apron, and he handed Chase a glass full of murky contents that reminded him of what he had just expelled from his belly. House must have noticed the look on his face, because he informed him, "my patented hangover cure. Trust me, I've had more than enough practice at perfecting it. It tastes like crap, so it's best if you just hold your nose and gulp." At Chase's grimace, he grinned. "And it's best not to ask me what's in it until tomorrow."

Chase gave him a dirty look, then held his nose and gulped the entire thing down. House had been right; it did taste like rancid garbage, and he thought he was going to immediately retch it up, but he stoically tried to hold it down. His head throbbed, and now, his stomach and chest hurt from being sick. He slumped down at the other end of House's couch, just trying to drown out the world.

"You gotta thank Lisa," House informed him. "She's the one who washed your clothes for you." House turned before he got a response, heading back into the kitchen.

"Chase," Cuddy said softly. "What were you thinking, last night? Drinking that much." She brushed a strand of dark hair out of her eyes, giving him a reproving glance. "You could have died."

He glared at her. "Maybe I wanted to," he gulped out, guilt and whatever the hell House had just given him churning in his belly. "Maybe, I just wanted the pain to end."

Her jaw dropped with surprise, but House brought him out a cup of coffee. Black, rich and strong, he sipped at it. House also handed Cuddy a cup, before he himself settled in the chair near them. "Pain, can make us do stupid things," he said, sipping at his own cup, those clear blue eyes staring knowingly at Chase. "You should talk to someone," he informed the younger doctor.

"I don't want to talk to someone," Chase pouted, sounding like a petulant child. House half expected him to cross his arms across his chest, but the young man just stared at his coffee.

"You were half naked in a snow drift," Cuddy told him gently. "You could have died," she repeated. "Whatever's bothering you, you need to get some professional help." She exchanged a knowing glance with House. "Before you do die, or do something that you'll regret."

"Just because he went crazy doesn't mean I will!" Chase shot back, angry at being ganged up on. He felt sick and cornered, and he was lashing out, trying to escape.

"I can't force you into anything," House told him, but he jutted his chin at Cuddy, "but she can."

Chase stared at him with wide blue-green eyes, daring either of them to say something. "Just because you don't like my lifestyle."

"I've lived your lifestyle," House snorted. "For most of my adult life. Different girl every night, drinking yourself into a stupor just so you can sleep. Trashing your relationships, jobs, and liver. Yeah, it was great times, and look where that led." He finished his coffee. "Trust me," he said, setting the cup down on his coffee table, keeping his eyes on Chase. "It's overrated."

"I want you to get some help," Cuddy informed him.

"It was just a one-time thing," Chase scoffed. "It was New Year's, and I overindulged, something we all do. It doesn't affect my job. I had today off, and I'll be in on-time tomorrow." He gave them both a nervous smile. "Trust me, I'll be fine. I'll be more careful in the future." He put his own mug down on the table. "Now, give me my keys, and I'll go home, and stay out of trouble, okay?"

Cuddy chewed on her bottom lip, but House nodded. "Okay," he said, indifferent. He went into the kitchen, and he brough Chase's effects out. "Want me to call you a cab?"

Chase plucked out his own mobile phone. "Can do it myself, _dad_," he snarked, then headed back into House's bedroom to get his shirt and jacket. He dressed angrily, not noticing he didn't have any socks or shoes. He rang up the cab company, worrying about his car later, when he could sit down and remember what bars he went to last night. He didn't have a problem, he told himself. It was just an eventful New Year's. Something that wouldn't happen again.

_Never again,_ he reminded himself as he climbed into the cab, leaving the judgmental eyes of his boss' behind him.

So, that night, he was sitting at the bar, flirting with a pretty brunette with warm, milk chocolate eyes, telling himself, as he took a drink of his gin and tonic, _never again._

_[**End**]_


	2. Chapter 2

**_Childhood_**

Gregory House was a doctor, not a babysitter, so how he found himself in that role, yet again, baffled him.

He had planned on a quiet, uneventful even playing cards and watching the Nets game with Wilson and the guys, while talking about how the Jets had made the playoffs for the second year in a row, surely a sign of the impending apocalypse. One of the more unique aspects of his relationship with one Lisa Cuddy was her understanding of his "me" time with Wilson, and it seemed she liked having a few evenings free to spend with Rachel; in all, a win-win. The beer had been bought, and Wilson was supplying the pretzels and chips. Ray and Paulie, two guys he had been playing cards with for years were bringing a pizza. All in all, it was shaping up to be a great testosterone and beer laden "guys-only" evening.

Until a patient suffering from emphysema on oxygen nearly blew up the pulmonary disease ward by lighting up while waiting to see her doctor.

Cuddy needed to stay late, situating repairs and running damage control, and, unfortunately, her regular sitter wasn't available. He had found out about the situation from the intern working on his residency that Cuddy had assigned to House as a punishment for alienating her Chief of Radiology, yet again. The intern, whose name House hadn't bothered to learn, had been gleefully telling the story to Chase and Foreman, who, after years of putting up with House's stunts, had just scoffed – that was _nothing _compared to what they had done and seen.

So, the moment House had been dreading came about just as he was preparing to leave work. He had half hoped that he would be able to sneak out of the hospital before she could accost him, but that didn't happen. His fellows had already left for the day, as had his new puppy, the intern, who now, after hearing the tales that his team had been telling, hero-worshiped House, making him feel uncomfortable, so the office and conference room were empty. He was stuffing the last few items into his book bag, halfheartedly tossing his DS and iPod in the nylon pack, frowning at the thought he might have forgotten something. While he was pondering that, he heard a voice clear from the office door, and he looked up, giving his girlfriend a half-hearted smile. "I'm gonna have to cancel my game tonight," he winced, raising an eyebrow in question.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I know it's poker night-" she sighed, closing her eyes. "But I've called an emergency building services meeting, since we have an entire office that needs to be repaired."

"All because someone was idiotic enough to light a cigarette while on oxygen in a hospital," he paused, pursing his lips and shaking his head, then he grinned a little. "I mean, those signs are so hard to read, with the cigarette with the blood red slash through it." He paused. "People are idiots."

"That idiot is in the ICU, with burns over forty percent of her body," Cuddy mused dryly. "I'm thanking god that she was the only one that was hurt," she sighed, wearily.

"All because she didn't abide by the no smoking signs posted all over the hospital," House gave her a small smirk.

"I know. I've had to deal with the press all day," she rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers, groaning at the thought.

"Turn around," he commanded, limping over to her without his cane.

She did as he told, and she felt his strong, dexterous hands wrap around her shoulders, his thumbs digging into the flesh in between her shoulder blades and at the base of her skull. She let a deep groan. "Your fingers are magic," she moaned as he worked her tense muscles.

She couldn't see him smirk, but she knew he was. "I know; that's what you told me last night," he whispered into her ear.

She was just about to melt into the massage, but the moment was ruined by the chirping of her blackberry. "Dammit," she breathed. She slipped out of his grasp, and she smoothed her blazer. "So," she began, tossing her dark hair back, shifting her gears back into administrator mode, "can I count on you to look after Rachel tonight?" Her gray eyes implored him.

He frowned, then shrugged. "Sure." She sagged with relief, until he added, "but you owe me."

She gave him her best glare. "I keep you from being fired on a daily basis," she informed him. "_You_ owe me."

Before he could retort, she waked out of the room, her stride confident. He smirked, rolling his eyes, before muttering, "we'll see about that."

[H] [H] [H]

The knock at the door was impatient, but rhythmical. "Coming," he called from the couch, putting his bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, while pausing the movie he was watching. He heaved himself up off the couch, and he made his way over to the door, yawning and stretching as he moved, his thigh giving a slight twinge from being in one position for so long. He opened the door, seeing a slightly disheveled Wilson and two other men standing there. His eyes flickered over their annoyed faces, as realization hit him. "Guess I should have called you, huh?"

"You think?" Wilson raised his eyebrow at him, his arms folded across his chest. "We waited at your apartment door for three hours before we realized that you weren't showing up."

House gave him a blank look. "You could of called me. They came up with these great bits of technology called _mobile_ phones. I know, it's a bit-"

"We tried," Wilson's tone was dry. "I wish you'd learn to charge the damn thing."

"Oh." He did his best to look contrite. "Sorry 'bout that," he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "But we'll have to call it off tonight."

"Hey!" Paulie barked. "I just drove all way from Camden for this game." He glared at house, snorting a little.

"And I drove from A.C.," Ray grumbled.

House bit his lip. "Look, I'm babysitting for my girlfriend..."

"And that means you can't play poker?" Ray asked, running a hand over his thinning hair. "We'll take your money, and be gone, before your girlfriend gets back." At that, Ray and Paulie snickered and exchanged glances; of all the things they'd come to expect from House, him having a steady girl that he didn't have to pay by the hour for was the last thing they would ever expect from him. Especially a steady girl with a kid.

House's lips quirked. "Cuddy doesn't have cable," he said slowly.

"Does she have the 'net?" Paulie asked, scratching at the coating of black stubble on his cheeks.

"Yeah,"

"Cool. We can watch the Nets game on your laptop."

"Great idea," Ray chimed in. "We don't really watch the game on TV anyway, while we're playing our game. We can at least keep up-to-date on the scores."

House held his hands out in front of him. "Alright, alright." His eyes darted around. "Look, the kid's asleep, so we'll have to keep it down, okay?" Paulie and Ray snickered again, and Wilson smirked at him. He rolled his eyes as they filed in to Cuddy's house. "You guys have better brought some snacks and beer!" he growled, not enjoying being the butt of their little joke.

An hour or so later, they were sitting around Cuddy's dining room table, beer bottles sitting in front of them.

"I'll see you," Paulie smirked, throwing a few bucks into the pile. "And I'll raise you ten."

"Ten?" Wilson's fuzzy eyebrows rose. "Too rich for my blood." He slapped his cards face down on the table. "I fold." He leaned back in his chair, watching everyone carefully.

House paid close attention to their body language. "I fold," he simply said, putting his cards down.

"Howse?" came a tiny, sleepy voice. The four men's head snapped over, and they saw Rachel standing in the doorway, rubbing her eye with one hand while squeezing her teddy bear's paw tightly with the other.

"Kiddo?" House asked, immediately getting up. "What's wrong?" he asked her as he gently picked her up.

"It tried to eat me," she sobbed, obviously rattled by a nightmare. "It eated you 'n' mommy 'n' it told me it was gonna eat me next." Tears flooded over her cheeks.

House cradled her closer. "Nothing's gonna eat you sweetie." At her whimper, he sighed. "See, I'm right here, and so's Uncle Jimmy."

"But where's mommy?" her lip quivered.

"At her job," House explained. "She'll be home soon, and she'll want you to be in bed, kiddo."

She shook her head violently. "No, no, no!" she squealed. "That's where the monster is!"

He swore he heard a chuckle behind him, but he kept focused on Rachel and her fears. "There is no monster," he soothed, rubbing her back. "Let's go back to bed," he whispered. She shook her head violently, then began sobbing loudly, clinging to him tightly. He bit his lip, preparing to carry her back to her bedroom, but something stopped him. He remembered a time when he was a kid, and around her age, and he had been scared to death by a monster under his bed. He remembered running into his parents' bedroom, scared to tears, babbling about the monster. His mother had made an attempt to sooth his fears, but his father felt that a boy of almost four should be able to face his fears, and he took House's hand and lead him back into his room. He remembered that door shutting behind him, and the lock clicking shut, imprisoning him with the monsters. He almost shuddered, as he remembered. "Okay, kid," he whispered. "You can stay out with us." He carried her back to the table, and with her on his lap, he resumed the game, daring his fellow players to say anything.

It was close to ten o'clock when he heard the door open and close. _Shit_, he thought, forgetting to send the boys home before Cuddy could get there. He cringed, waiting for her to start yelling as he heard her heels click across the hardwood floors. Rachel squirmed on his lap, holding five cards in her small hands. Yup, he was going to die.

Cuddy leaned against the door frame, appalled at seeing her daughter sitting on House's knee with Wilson and two seedy looking guys sitting at her dining room table. What made matters worse, was the sight of her four year old daughter holding a poker hand in her hands. She could feel the anger broil inside of her, but then her daughter looked at the man with thinning hair, and asked, primly, "do you have any birds?"

The man guffawed, then handed her a card. Cuddy blinked, then realized that her daughter had four middle-aged men playing Go Fish, and instead of a normal deck of playing cards, it was the Go Fish deck her sister had given her, with animals on them. As if reading her mind, House glanced over to where she was standing and winked. "Thought she was a little young for poker." Rachel twisted her head around, then stretched out her arms, reaching for Cuddy. "Mama!" she squealed. Cuddy came over and scooped the little girl into her arms, and Rachel buried her head in Cuddy's neck, sighing happily. She exhaled, thinking that she wasn't going to kill him this particular night. He nodded at the balding man in glasses. "This is Tax Accountant,"

"Ray," the man broke in, standing up to shake her hand.

"And this is Bus Stop Guy," he nodded at the swarthy man with thick black hair and stubble.

"Paulie," he corrected, taking her hand. "We've been playing cards with The Jerk here for, what, six, seven years?" he asked the other man.

"Somethin' like that," Ray grunted. "Long enought to pay for this little girl's college fund with what we've lost." At that, they all laughed, and Ray and Paulie put down their cards. "It's late, Jerk," Ray informed House. "Same time next week?" he asked, shrugging into his coat.

"But not the same place," House grimaced. "Usual place."

They said their brief goodbyes, and Wilson quickly cleaned up, then quickly exited himself, leaving Cuddy and House to resolve this on her own.

"You invited your poker buddies into my home when you were supposed to be babysitting." It was direct and to the point.

"They hunted me down using a bloodhound named Wilson," he mumbled, rubbing his face with his hands. "They got here around seven thirty, Rachel was asleep, and I didn't think it'd be a problem." He shrugged. "Then she woke up with a nightmare, and I let her stay up."

"Why didn't you put her back to bed?" Cuddy asked, rubbing the little girl's back, who was falling asleep on her shoulder.

House sighed, and she saw something dark pass over his face. She stared at him, puzzled, as quickly as it passed, it was gone. "She has plenty of time to deal with real life monsters," he said quietly. "I thought it would okay if she didn't battle the imaginary ones, at least just this once."

Cuddy looked at him, an odd look on her face. "Okay," she said slowly, knowing that there was more behind the story, then she gave him a small smile. "I'm going to put her to bed, but that doesn't mean that we won't talk about this later. She leaned over, and she gave him a quick kiss on the lips, then she carried the girl down the hall, leaving House deep in thought at the table, rubbing his thigh.

[End]


	3. Chapter 3

_**Dying**_

The day was warm for January, bright and sunny, like spring was trying to break through winter's cold grasp on the world, but the air still held a chill. The leafless trees were scattered around like skeleton sentinels, presiding silently, looming over the snow and ice covered grounds. Stone monuments poked up from the cold, white blanket, mottling the almost uniformed white with all shades of gray. Snow was draped heavily over the stone works, like a white shawl, weighing heavily on the branches of the trees and on the wrought iron fences.

Farther into the cemetery, a sizable crowd of people gathered around an open grave, lowering a magnificently polished steel colored casket into the open hole. Eric Foreman watched from afar, standing beside his car, far enough away to go unnoticed by the crowd of people. He watched as his father stood at the edge of the grave, and he knew the prayer his father was speaking wordlessly to his mother as her body was covered with the earth. _Ashes to ashes,_ Eric wordless mouthed, bowing his head, a sudden pressure building up in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he forced his head up, watching as people dropped blood red roses into the open grave, before walking silently to their own cars, preparing to go to the house his mother and father had lived in fore nearly 40 years, raising sons, sharing laughs and cries, all before his mother began to forget.

He held in a shuddering breath. He couldn't show emotion, not now. Cool, calm, and collected; that's how he had always operated. At least, since he was fourteen. His mother's words echoed in his mind. _I pray for you_. She had told both he and his brother that as they had sat silently in the backseat. Marcus had snorted and laughed as soon as she had left them alone in the car. "Dude," he had chortled. "Can you believe that? We got off so lucky."

"Yeah," Eric had answered softly, something churning in his gut uncomfortably at his brother's reaction. If Marcus hadn't been sitting beside him, he would have cried, he hurt so badly. That day, he had made it a point to never disappoint his mother again, even going out of his way to prove that he deserved her pride and love, even if she never had to ask for it. He worked hard, and in doing so, he squelched his emotions down, never allowing himself to show anger or pain while his brother was shuffled in and out of, first, juvenile hall, and then, jail, until finally, prison. He would feel himself grow angry again and again as their mother continued to shower Marcus with love while he stole from both her and his father, while he struggled on in silence, never raising a voice to protest or complain, and yet, always carrying a feeling of alienation; of never belonging or being worthy of being cared for.

The apron strings cut deep.

The last person finally left the grave site, and a loneliness settled over him. He hadn't told anyone in Princeton where he was headed today; just that he needed a day off. Not even Thirteen knew. Once he was sure that no one was around, he walked over to the polished marble and granite stone that stood before him. _A loving mother and wife_ was etched under the engraving of a single rose. His mother had loved roses, and she had tended to them lovingly. He pulled a dusky pink bloom out from the inside pocket of his beige overcoat, and he placed it carefully in front of the stone. He knelt there for a moment, saying a silent prayer. He never flaunted his religious beliefs to House, or the others, not even Thirteen, but somehow, he felt a sense of peace as he recited the words in his mind, believing that his mother was in a better place.

_I pray for you._ The words floated in his mind, and he felt a shiver as a single tear slid from the corner of his eye, belying his usual stoic demeanor. "No, Mom," he whispered hoarsely to the winter air. "Now, I pray for you." He reached out his fingers and he touched the cold stone briefly, before quickly standing up. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, and he kept his head bowed reverently. "I love you, Mom," he whispered. "And I hope I made you proud." With those last words, he slipped his hands into his pockets, and he walked to his car, wondering if Chase was up for a drink.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A Shadow of His Former Self**_

The tiny rubber ball sailed across the room, slamming into the wall, bouncing back towards him. The fluffy white cat scuttled after it, playing with it enthusiastically, batting it away before it could reach him. He smiled at the play, watching as the cat batted the ball underneath the couch. She rolled on her side, reaching underneath the couch as far as she could, and he could see her little paw waving frantically, trying to dislodge it from it's hiding place.

With a sigh, he heaved himself up. "I've got it, Sarah," he told the cat, the sound of his voice echoing off the walls of his apartment. He moved the sofa, and, using his toes, he rolled the ball out into the more empty space of the living room. "There you go," he said, smiling as she chased the ball around. It rolled onto the carpet, and Sarah lost interest, instead padding into the kitchen, presumably to eat some of the special kibble that she had to eat. He sighed, rubbing his lower back, and he glanced at the clock. Eight o'clock. He rubbed at his eyes; it was too early to go to bed, but he didn't feel like going out, either.

He sat down in front of the TV, and he powered on his X-box, thinking that he might play a little Call Of Duty before bed. He found an online group, and he began to play.

As he tried to shoot down helicopters, he thought to House, and what his friend might be up to. It was Friday night, so he might be at Cuddy's, or he might be at the office. House hadn't had a case before he left for the day, but one might have turned up. It was a little after eight, so even Cuddy probably would have left by then, and they might be sharing dinner, with little Rachel in a high chair, sharing interesting stories about their day.

He should be jealous, he supposed. House was a self confirmed narcissistic ass, full of self-loathing and more than a little self destructive, and he was sure that House felt that he didn't deserve the recent happiness he had found, but he realized that House did, in fact, deserve it. House had been alone for so many years, feeling undeserved of love and affection, and now, he had finally attained it, but it had been a long, lonely road.

He himself had always been looking for love, even when he had it right in front of him, so now, at the age of forty-one, he was sitting on the couch, in his pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, bare-foot, playing video games with just a cat for company. Sarah was a great companion; she didn't eat much, she was neat, despite the shedding, and she wasn't ridiculing or arguing with him at every turn.

But he still felt like something was missing. He was thrice divorced, and he could almost consider himself a widower, too. He had loved Amber so much, and he was preparing to propose to her; the day she died was the day he had planned to go shopping for a ring. He'd tried to reconnect with Sam, and she left him in the cold, much like she had done the first time around. His best friend and closest confidant was now busy with a new found love and family.

He was leading a very lonely life, anymore.

He grew frustrated with his game, and he powered down the console. He padded and paced around the condo, trying to figure out what he should do. He could call up Brittany, the girl from the coffee shop, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He wasn't ready yet, where before, he would have been ready before Sam had left. He sighed, weary and frustrated, so he decided to just go to bed. He padded through the lonely and empty loft to his bedroom, where he pulled back the sheets of his bed, and he slid in between them.

He laid on his back, staring at the molding on the ceiling in the filtered streetlight. He wasn't tired, but he wasn't feeling up to doing anything, so he just laid in his bed, his mind retracing his past mistakes. Sure, there had been some good times in there, but there had seemed to be many more failures. He sighed heavily, then he felt the bed depress as Sarah jumped up on the bed, purring. Kneading the comforter, she made her way to his side, where she curled up, resting her head on his chest, purring loudly. He closed his eyes, and he rumpled her fur with his hand, causing her to add small trills to her purrs, obliviously content.

He frowned. Happiness was overrated, Wilson thought, yawning.

Tomorrow, he would go back on his anti-depressants, and he would hope that would help him regain something he felt he had lost.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Seeking Solace**_

Tears streaming down her face, Martha Masters fled the office as fast as her feet could carry her. She couldn't bear being stuck in an elevator with people staring at her, so she made a bee-line for the stairwell, walking rapidly, her mind a haze of conflicting thoughts. She paused at the stair floor landing; should she go up or down – she needed a place to hide, she thought, wiping the hot tears off her face with the back of her hand. After the briefest hesitation, she decided on up, and she hoped that the orderlies that snuck up there for smoke breaks had left the door propped open.

In the first stroke of good luck of the day, she discovered that they had left it open, and she stepped out on the flat roof, the large heating and cooling fans whirring noisily. The frosty air of late winter assaulted her already burning lungs, and she wrapped her lab coat around her tightly. She spotted a ledge overlooking the patient parking, and she noticed that it was just wide enough to sit on. The concrete was cold underneath her skirt and hose, and her back where she leaned against the building, but she didn't mind; it actually felt good against her scorching skin. She wrapped her arms around her legs, and she pulled her knees to her chest, and she let the tears fall, burning against her reddened face.

She didn't know what to do; it started out so innocuous. She had spent so much of her life in school and in classrooms, that suddenly, at the age of twenty-four, she decided that she wanted to use her skills and knowledge to help people, and the best way she knew to help people was to become a doctor. She already had a Ph. D from Princeton, and she aced her McaT, so PPTH seemed to be the best fit. She liked medical school, and she found she learned very quickly and raced to the top of her class, but now, it seemed like heaviest weight on her shoulders.

She never thought that applying for Dr. House's fellowship was going to be so life changing. She had been amazed when a spot had opened up – Dr. House **never** took on med students, but she had never in a million years thought she was going get it, but somehow, he had chosen her to fill the empty spot.

No, she thought, wiping away her still free falling tears, it was Dr. Cuddy who had chosen her for House's team. She never knew why the Dean of Medicine had chosen her, but now she wished she had never applied. At first, she had been surprised and glad that Dr. Cuddy had backed her, and it made her proud that her abilities had warranted such praise from the Dean, but now, she regretted it, because she felt like she had let Dr. Cuddy down.

She only wanted to do what was right, but what was right in Dr. House's world felt wrong. She felt bad for telling the patient that they were lying about the treatment, but she knew that the treatment was wrong, and was going to kill the man. She had tried to argue her point with Dr. House and his team during the differential, but she felt like the team had just ignored her while House had berated and insulted her. The disease they thought it was didn't match all the symptoms, and despite Dr. House's assertions that it was a rare presentation, she had fervently thought otherwise, and after being dismissed, she poured over every medical text and journal she could find dealing with that disease, only become even more certain that she was right.

And being right was being wrong in Dr. House's office.

She wrung her hands, her tears not stopping. She knew that she was going to get reamed for telling the patient was was going on, but she couldn't keep up the lie; even by not participating, she was letting the lie go on, and she couldn't do it anymore. She just couldn't...

The door to the stairwell opened up loudly, causing her to jerk, startled by the sound. She whipped her head around, curling in to a tighter ball when she saw his limping form emerge from the building. "What do you want," she sniffled, trying to keep her voice harsh, but she imagined that she just sounded pathetic.

He glared at her, then he handed her a couple of sheets of paper. She hated that her hands were shaking when she took it; it was only a sign of weakness, and she hated that she was being week and emotional. She wished she could be cold and calculating and logical like he was, even though he had to have a completely miserable existence; it had to be better than what she was feeling. She felt his eyes on her, examining her like an x-ray. "I'm not a sociopath," he finally said, limping over to the ledge and sitting down, heavily. "But I do demand the best from my minions."

"And their best means lying to your patients," she shot back.

"_Everybody_ lies," he told her, keeping his voice firm. "Patients lie, doctors lie, families lie, friends lie," he shrugged. "It's a basic truth of the human condition." He nodded at the papers. "I refuse to accept your resignation, until you learn that."

"I gave one to Dr. Cuddy, too," she sniffed.

"Dr. Cuddy's my girlfriend," he told her in a _duh_ tone. "She'll understand when I let her know why I declined your resignation." He was silent for a moment, tapping his cane against the concrete rooftop. "Besides," he said, finally breaking the silence, "she's the one who sent me up here to talk to you."

"How'd you know I was here?"

He gave her another _duh_ look. "You're not the first person that tried to find solace up here on the rooftop after you screwed up." He scanned the landscape, watching the twinkling lights of the city and cars all around him. "The last time I was up here was to convince my ex-girlfriend to leave her husband for me."

She looked at him in disbelief. "You're lying," she finally said, pouting a little. "And I didn't screw up. I-"

"I'm not lying, and you screwed up," he cut her off, snorting a little. "Cuddy had to step in to keep the guy from throwing us off the case." He took a deep breath, "but," he said, scrunching up his face like he was chewing glass, "you were right, too. Your treatment's working." He gave her a long look. "Look kid, you got the brains, and the balls, even if you're up here crying your eyes out. This is the big leagues; you're not in the minors anymore." He stood up, rolling his eyes up to the orange illuminated night sky, the stars blocked by the light pollution of the city. "You gotta learn to handle the heat, kid, or else you're always gonna be disappointed by people, and eventually, you'll turn into a miserable, cynical bastard."

With that, he limped back to the stairwell, disappearing inside, leaving her alone to ponder his words. She took a deep breath, and she wiped away the tears that still stained her cheeks. House was right – this **was** the big leagues, and she needed to prove to herself that she could make it, and she could try to not let her own values get compromised in the way. She craned her neck to look up at the night sky, the cold beginning to seep in through her clothes. Her face felt hot and puffy, and the chilled air felt good against her skin. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her still roiling emotions.

If all else failed, she thought, drying her eyes, she could still find a quiet solace up here on the rooftop, reassuring herself that despite everything, she had done what was right.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Broken Pieces**_

The slack strings would never be strummed again, and he told himself it was that fact that saddened him the most.

He'd bought the old guitar at twelve, saving up allowances and doing odd jobs for a couple of months. His father had refused to buy it for him, knowing his son's fluid mind, and the fact his interests shifted from moment to moment, like water over smooth rocks. It would rock music one moment, fast cars the next, then acting a moment later. What his father found was a shame was the fact that his son showed talent in whatever he would do, but he wasn't grounded in anything.

They were stationed in San Diego that year, and he had troubles fitting into his school. He was all arms and legs, having just hit a growth spurt, and he showed no interest in sports, so he had spent most of his time at the library escaping through adventure stories or mysteries, like the Hardy Boys or Sherlock Holmes. He had been walking home from school when he saw it, hanging in the window of a second hand music shop. It had looked brand new to him, but at nearly fifty bucks, it was well out of his pocket money price range.

He had been playing piano since he could remember, but he had noticed that most of the really popular musicians were guitarists, not pianists, unless he was Elton John. He had cracked a grin at the thought of his uptight father seeing his son in sequins and outlandish glasses, pounding out music on a piano. No, the coolest musicians – Eric Clapton, Kieth Richards, Paul McCartney – they were all guitarists, and he had to have _that _guitar.

So he told his mother about it, and she mentioned it to his dad. He had listened to them argue, his ear pressed to the door of the kitchen, hearing words like _lazy, screw-off, insolent, _and _spoiled_ thrown about. His heart sank as he heard his fathers heavy boots stride across the linoleum floor, and he scurried away quickly, plopping down on the couch before his father opened the door, barely paying attention to the Partridge Family episode that was playing on the television. His father glared at him, "you want that guitar, you pay for it yourself." It was that simple, even though nothing was that simple to his dad.

The next day, he had scrambled out, knocking on neighbor's doors, offering his services for yard and house work, even though he hated doing stuff like that. He offered his services for tutoring the other kids at his school, his reputation as some sort of know it all genius already having been established. It seemed like it took him forever to get all the money together, but it slowly added up. It was a bright and sunny day when he walked home; the last day of school, and he walked into the shop. The guitar came with an cracked leather strap, and a battered hard case, and a second set of strings. The shop worker showed him how to change the strings, and how to tune it, offering lessons at five dollars a week, but he had shook his head; he always did better learning on his own.

In high school and college, the guitar had helped make him become popular with the ladies, and after medical school, it gave a distraction until he saved up enough for a piano. It had always been there to be played in the darkest times, and countless tunes and melodies had been plucked and strummed from it. The strings had been changed countless of times, and the finish bore as many scratches and scars as he did, but he had taken good care of it, and it still had played beautifully.

And now, after so many years of playing and care, it lay in pieces on the floor of his apartment.

He and Lisa had ran out of the kitchen at the discordant sound as the wood broke apart. They had left Rachel alone on the couch with _Finding Nemo_ playing on the television. Originally, she had been sitting with Rachel, but she had come into the kitchen for a few moments, to ask him a question. The crashing sound had come less than a minute later, and now, Rachel looked up at him, her round, cobalt blue eyes brimming with tears, her lower lip quivering.

Lisa stared at him, trying to gauge his reaction, and he must have surprised her, given her gasp as he knelt in front of the little girl with a grunt of effort and pain. Rachel had been holding her hand close to her chest, and he gently tugged on it, showing a large splinter buried in her palm. "Cuddy," he said quietly. "There's a first aid kit in the kitchen, under the sink."

With a nod, she immediately hurried in there. Rachel stared at the splinter, then back up at House, before bursting into tears. "Hurts," she moaned, hiccuping between her sobs.

"It's okay, it's okay," he hushed, trying not to look at the broken pieces of his guitar on the floor. Lisa came out with the first aid kit, and he pulled out the antiseptic and a pair of tweezers. "This is gonna hurt, then it's gonna be okay," he told her, aware of Lisa hovering over his shoulder. "I just need you to hold still, okay."

The little girl nodded, still hiccuping and crying. With a deft movement, he plucked the splinter out, cleaned the wound, then put a Sponge Bob Squarepants band-aid on it. Once assured that Rachel was okay, Lisa disappeared for a moment, then came out with a trash bag, and his broom and dust pan. "I'm so sorry," she whispered hoarsely to him.

Rachel had ran back to the couch, and he could see her peeking over the back of it at him. He forced himself to look at the shattered remnants of his guitar on the floor. "It was an accident," he said, finally. "It can be replaced," he sighed. He glanced back at Rachel still peering at them from the sofa. "She can't, and besides," he tried to force himself to grin at Lisa, "I broke my fair share of stuff when I was her age. Paybacks are a bitch."

Lisa let out a soft whoosh of relief. "I'm still sorry."

He shrugged. "You can buy me a new one." He glanced at Rachel. "Take it out of her future allowances, and I'll call it even."

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, and together, they cleaned up the mess. "You know what sucks," he said aloud, to no one in particular. "I just bought those damn strings, and I haven't had a chance to break 'em in."

[End]


	7. Chapter 7

_**May I Have This Dance?**_

The steady thrum of the bassline mimicked Thirteen's heartbeat as she writhed around her partner on the dance floor. Her hair was slipping from the clip that held it back, and it was starting to stick to the back of her neck. The music shifted to a slightly different beat with no pause in between to indicate the change in song. Slightly out of breath, she looked at the woman she'd been dancing with. "I'm gonna go get a drink, okay?" She smiled breathlessly, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.

"Sure!" the pretty, petite young woman answered, flashing a brilliantly white smile. Thirteen walked a few feet away, then turned to glance at the woman, who's name she hadn't gotten, to see her dancing with another woman on the dance floor. That was fine; Thirteen wasn't exactly looking for a friend at the moment – just a momentary escape.

She leaned against the glass bar, bars of neon lights underneath the opaque glass causing interesting shifts in color. She was just about to signal the bartender for an order, when the tuxedo wearing bartender came her way, carrying a martini glass. "From the gentleman," she said, wrinkling her nose; lesbians mostly patroned this bar, and Thirteen was well known to the crowd.

Thirteen craned her neck around the bartender, then inhaled sharply. She bit her lip, finally snorting as she pushed off from the bar, taking her drink with her. She walked over to where Foreman was standing, leaning against the bar in his beige trench coat, impeccably well dressed, as usual. "What do you want?" she asked a little sharply, giving him a hard look.

His cool, dark eyes carefully took her in. "I was wondering if we could talk?" he finally asked, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"We don't have anything to talk about," she sat down on the bar stool next to him, and she quaffed her drink down, pulling out the toothpick impaled olive from the empty glass, nibbling on it."

"You disappear for eight months, come back like nothing had happened, and you don't think we have anything to talk about?" Irritation and hurt came out in his voice, more than he wanted to. He closed his eyes, toying with his own glass of amber liquid.

"It didn't have anything to do with you, or anyone else at the hospital -" she prepared to defend herself.

"You _lied_ to us," Foreman bit out, angrily, causing the persons nearest to them to turn their heads. He took a few deep breaths. "You lied to us," he said, much softer, and sounding even more hurt than before.

"It wasn't any of your business," she said, curtly.

He snorted. "Right.

She glared at him, "like you care, anyway. You cloak yourself in self righteousness and this stoic coldness, then you pretend you care about me? You didn't care while we were dating, and you don't care now. You just want to make yourself feel better." She downed the rest of her martini, the cold bitterness chilling her esophagus down to her stomach. "You just want to let yourself know that you're not like House." She settled her enigmatic gaze on him, her green eyes glowing in the neon lights. "Well, too bad. You are like him."

His head jerked like he'd been slapped, and he inhaled sharply. "I'm sorry you feel that way," he said, softly. Then he lifted chin a little, pride stiffening his spine. "But I am _not_ like House." He snorted, his gaze becoming a little harder. "That much I've learned over the years."

"Then why do you try and act like him, so smug and self satisfied," she gave him a little glance before signaling for a refill. "When all you are is miserable."

He frowned, his eyebrows knitting together so close they were practically touching. "I don't want to be miserable. I _hate_ being miserable."

"So you numb yourself so much you can't feel pain," she picked up the new martini the bartender sat in front of her, and she took a sip, then she gave him a knowing glance. "You just don't have a vicodin habit to do it. Yet."

He let his chin drift down to his chest. "I'm...I'm sorry," he shook his head. "I didn't come here to argue."

"Yeah, you kinda did," she rolled her eyes.

He huffed a little, then shook his head. "I just wanted to see you – to see if you were okay. You are. See you at work tomorrow." He pulled out his wallet and tossed a few twenties on the counter. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he turned to leave the bar.

She sighed. "Foreman," he hesitated, turning around to look at her. "I'm sorry." She stood up, and she walked towards him. "I...I know that you were worried about me, but trust me, I'm fine." They stood there for a few moments, letting the ambiance of the club wash over them. The thrumming music echoed their own heartbeats, and the pulsating lights cast odd shadows all over the club.

Foreman swallowed. "Look, I know it may seem out of place here," he said, softly. "But, do you think," he hesitated, momentarily clenching his teeth together. "Do you think we can share just one more dance?" he asked, hesitantly.

She gave him an odd look, then took his large hand in hers, tracing the lines on his palm. "That's a bad idea," she said, softly. "Let's not."

He looked at her, then nodded, slipping his hand out of her grip. "Glad you're doing well," he said, finally. He walked out of the club, leaving her alone.

[H] [H] [H]

The television was on in his apartment, and Taub was asleep on the couch, sitting up. His head was thrown back on the upper cushions, and his mouth was open; he was snoring loudly. He frowned at his roommate; his coat and suit jacket had been casually discarded on the comfortable chair, and his shoes had been taken off haphazardly by the door. Foreman stared at the scene for a moment, then sighed, rubbing his forehead. Deciding that he needed a drink before bed, he headed to his kitchen, pouring himself a generous portion of scotch. He stood beside the bar that served as the barrier between his kitchen and dining room, nursing his scotch, kicking himself for even going out and seeing her. He shook his head – it had been a bad idea.

When he heard the knock on the door, he had nearly finished his glass. Frowning, he checked the clock; it was an absurd hour of the night for anyone besides House to be knocking, and his boss usually called first. He crossed into the dining room, and through the living room. Taub snorted on the couch, but otherwise showed no signs of stirring. Foreman peered through the peephole, and he was surprised at who was standing there. Opening the door, he greeted Thirteen. "What are you doing here?"

She gave him a a small smile. "Can I come in?" she asked, and he stood aside to let her in.

He ran his hand over his head. "What are you doing here?" he repeated.

"I-" she paused. "I came to take you up on that offer." She glanced at Taub on the couch. "Never picked you two as roommates," she commented dryly.

He shrugged. "Things happen," he said, staring at her. So, you wanna dance?"

"Yeah, but-?" she glanced at Taub again. "I think this is a bad time."

"Yeah," he said, forcing to keep his face impassive. "Some other time?"

"Hmmm," she tapped her finger to her lips in thought. "I think I'd like that," she smiled, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she walked out the front door. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He gave her a small smile. "See you," he said, closing the door behind her. He pressed his forehead to the cool wood for a moment, until he heard a snort come from the couch.

"You're still not over her," Taub commented, his eyes still closed.

Foreman bit his lip, thinking of a retort, then he walked over to the couch, pushing Taub over, hard. "You should talk," he snorted, then went to his bedroom, knowing that Taub was right.

[End]


End file.
